“We must use our lives to make the world a better place to live, not just to acquire things. That is what we are put on the earth for.”

- Dolores Huerta

We’re overdue for another Ricky Blaze run

As spring has rolled in, I’ve already begun anticipating summer and trying to figure out what the vibe is for summer 26’ considering all of the craziness in the world and the really interesting adjustments happening in my personal life. One thing I know for a fact is that I’m trying to live this summer and have decided that Ricky Blaze is the soundtrack. If you don’t know who Ricky Blaze is, he’s responsible for some of the dopest songs from the late 2000s, including the Gyptian song Hold Yuh. I’m tryna live like it’s summer 2008/2009, when I’m outside at the parties just vibing. Or, I’m tryna have those epic nights that feel like it’s the climax of a movie, and Feel Free is the backing song that also ends up in the end credits. Truly, I really feel as though we are way overdue for another run of a Ricky Blaze summer. I need him to come back and start dropping hits. I don’t know what happened or where he is, but if anyone knows, could you tell him I’m making a personal request to have us ready for the summertime? Thank you.

Y’all are not dancing enough for me

I’m starting to realize that folks are getting way too serious and are extremely uptight, and truly, yall need to shake a little something, especially to get back in your bodies. I’ve had these moments recently where I've found that dancing has helped me get stress out, have a good time, and do my thing. As someone who truly loathes club politics, I’ve been resisting all that nonsense and using it for its intended purpose, to dance. I’ve come across spots in LA where people go to be seen, and it’s forever weird to me, but lately, the places I’ve been going out to have been a great time to see people actually dance. I don’t know if it’s an LA thing or just a matter of the times, but I don’t understand this notion of going out to just be seen. I’m tryna to dance. I’m trying to throw a little something in a circle. I’m tryna to grind up on somebody’s son. I’m tryna dance in the club like it’s the Honey movie. When did we get to a point where we were too cool to do absolutely anything? We’re too cool to dance. We’re too cool to actually speak to each other in real life. We’re too cool ot be in love?! I hate what this era is becoming, like it’s mad corny to me, and it’s a no for me. If this is how y’all gonna move, y’all can keep it. Show me and put me where the people are dancing and being themselves because I’m trying to hype people up, communally screaming “ayeeeeeee.” Loosen up, geez

Black girls are truly magical

Earlier this March, I had the opportunity to help facilitate a workshop at a retreat for Black girls at a charter school here in LA. And to be honest, I was coming off a really wonky two weeks. Four cities in one week, feeling gloomy, unsettled, and by the time I got back, just overwhelmed. I didn’t have the energy for it.But right when I was trying to find a reason not to go, something told me to show up anyway. And being present in that space turned out to be everything I needed. I was fully restored. It was a balm. It was beautiful watching these middle and high school girls just be themselves. But more than that, I was struck by how brilliant, talented, and intentional they are and how they’re already thinking about their futures. One senior got up and hyped her friend’s lash business… like, a whole business. I know that’s right. The manifestos they created for themselves, defining who they are and where they’re going, were just powerful. And the dancing… whew. These girls had no problem being free. Crumping, going off, fully in it. It was a reminder of how necessary spaces like this are. Not just for Black and Brown girls, but for all of us. We’re in a time where everything feels heavy and uncertain. And to be able to step into a space where you can just be free, express yourself, laugh, be silly, be held in community, that matters. It matters deeply. Naturally, I couldn’t help but think of what spaces like these exist for black boys, beyond surface-level ideas of masculinity (like showing them how to tie a tie). I yearn for that for them. I hope more men show up for the next generation, because it’s needed. It’s really needed. I also walked outta there with “big momma, no kids as an affirmation, which is so on brand because

I feel like i’m actually Andell

I’ve come to terms with the fact that if there was ever a character from Moesha I identify with, it’s Andell. The way I’m able to talk to young folks, engage them, and, hopefully, create a safe space for them reminds me of what she built with the Den. It just makes sense. Andell was an entrepreneur who went from running a dope juice spot to expanding into a lounge. Plus, my good sis always kept a man… well, okay, maybe she held onto J.W. a little too long for my liking, but, nonetheless, she had a man in her face tryna take her out and show her what’s up. I respect her hustle and, more than anything, how she showed up for the next generation and poured into her community, and I’m seeing that same thread in my own life. She really is the epitome of Big Momma, no kids. I hope Yvette Wilson is resting peacefully. Forever thankful for her brilliance in that role.

No one man should have all that power

Earlier in the month of March, Dolores Huerta, movement leader for the Farm Workers movement, shared that she was raped and abused by Cesar Chavez, along with other women who came forward about their abuse. I was really interested in hearing the stories of the survivors, but I was especially struck that Dolores came forward not just to share, but to back up those women. It put a few things into perspective for me. One, how powerful it is to share your story and your truth, and how it’s such a brave, unfortunate kind of brave, act to do that openly and widely. Living in a state where Cesar Chavez’s work has been so highly regarded, it made me sit with something Dolores said, that no one man should be the face of a movement, but we are the movement. I’ve been learning a lot about Black women and freedom movements, and how women’s stories and contributions are constantly overlooked and underappreciated. At the same time, we’re in a day and age where it feels like everyone wants to be the one, and I don’t think that’s by mistake. I think it’s human nature. Power does something to people and in a time where everyone is, in some way, treated like a celebrity through social media, it’s easy to fall into that. I remember being at the Legacy Museum in Alabama, looking up at a wall of Black leaders who contributed to so many movements, and thinking, I hope I get on that wall one day and I had to quickly catch myself because I immediately was met with the reality of what it took for those people to be on that wall. Not just contributing, but giving so much of themselves and their lives. While we can name individuals, the movement has never been just one person. It’s a collection of people. And in a time where everything feels heavy, where the world feels complex and people are trying to heal while also being on edge, we have to remember that. The movement is not one person. The movement is us. We are the one. Community isn’t just a word or something trendy, it’s an opportunity to move together and shift what we’re living through. My heart goes out to Dolores Huerta, to the victims who came forward, and to anyone who has experienced sexual violence. I love you. You’re not alone.

here’s a little playlist to make you dance and introduce you to some Rick Blaze classics and songs alike.

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If things around you crumble
No, you don't have to stumble and fall
Keep pushing on and don't you look back

- Sound of Blackness, Optimistic

I remember why we must say no to drugs.

I have to be honest and talk about how the past month, I've been on one of the strongest drugs across America. Coffee. Before I get into this shameful admission, I have to say that I am so serious when I say caffeine is a drug, and too many of y’all are okay with being addicts. Anywho, I’ve been spending more time at coffee shops recently, and one day decided to get an Americana. Typically, I reserve drinking coffee for emergencies only, but I went against my own best judgement because it was giving “when in Rome.” Twenty minutes after a cup, I found myself with a level of energy that left me prepared to take on the world. I was texting friends affirmations, making a billion and one lists of tasks to complete, and sharing rapid-fire notes on Substack. I didn’t realize it was due to the coffee until the next day, when I felt less energized. Making the connection, I foolishly purchased a Greka (Moka pot) and it’s been cups of Afra Café’s Honduran coffee ever since. I refuse to continue this and am reverting to tea in March. After a day of no coffee, immediately the withdrawals kick in and I actually hate that for me. I don’t know how yall can remain here, but I refuse and am officially in recovery. With that being said, if yall need my coffee plug for that Honduran coffee, let me know.

Help save me from going back on the apps

A while ago I started playing San Andreas and have been trying to play as many Grand Theft Autos as I can before the new one drops, and its been a dope time just running through missions and seeing places that are familiar in real time. This started as me just playing on my phone, and now I have a switch because the commitment has been that deep for me. I’ve been enjoying myself but have recently gotten stuck on a mission where CJ has to take weapons from a military base with Ryder and has to load boxes in his truck and keep Ryder alive. For the life of me, I CAN NOT GET PAST THIS MISSION. I’ve been stuck on it for a while, which has deterred me from playing bc it really has been a task, bro. One of my friends, who is really my little brother, has been giving me a hard time about it, taunting me for not finishing, but doesn’t wanna help me. Mad fake if you ask me, but what do I know?! It’s getting to the point where I’ve considered downloading one of those God forsaken apps to literally put in the bio that I’m looking for someone to help me with this mission. Please send help. Don’t let me go back into that horrible ass place yall. Please.

What that dowry do?

I shared a note that said “traditional this, traditional that. If we doing this traditional thing, WHERE IS THE DOWRY?” and I said what I said. Personally, I feel like we’re not leaning into these traditional conversations enough. Instead of arguing or letting it get under my skin, I’ma start requesting a dowry. At this point, I don’t care to hear about any traditional requirements if we’re not discussing a dowry. I don’t wanna hear about what our ancestors did if again, we’re not discussing a dowry. We bringing up biblical expectations? Let’s do it. There’s a bride price! Ol’ boy doesn’t believe in Jesus, and is Muslim, hello Mahr! (That’s more of a mutually agreed upon marriage gift than a bride price that’s negotiated and given to the bride). Regardless, I say all this to say, we gotta bring these traditional principles back in the mix in the conversation of tradition. Some of these dudes don’t wanna come with anything but a hard-on and headaches. Let’s be for real. Don’t even move like J Smoov and out here making crazy demands. Now that I think about it..

Whatever happened to J Smoov?

For those who don’t know, there was a YouTube dance sensation named J Smoov who would basically thrust all over anything and everything to songs like Nobody by Keith Sweat and Say It by T-Pain. Those videos were some that I ABSOLUTELY should not have been watching as a pre-teen, but the mere acrobatics of it all fascinated me. It was erotic enough and quite athletic if you ask me. Anyway, that man had YouTube on lock before it was even a thing. Then suddenly, when the world needed him most, he vanished. I actually happened to look into where he’s been, and somehow he ended up getting locked up and went to prison. The more you know. Anywho! Those videos are part of Black history, and that man deserves his flowers because he has truly influenced a generation of people. I mean, the influence may not have been the best because I’m sure it encouraged a gang of minors to be their freakiest of freaks, but nonetheless, that man’s impact lives on and has helped birth so many new babies of our time. For Black History Month, we need to honor him as one of the first Black internet influencers who single handedly contributed to bringing life on this planet.

WWJD?

The world is one fire. One tragedy after the other, the economy is a hot ass mess, America is on the verge of war, folks are being called ni**er at award shows, things are in disarray. In trying times like these, there really is only one man who can help us out. One man whose sacrifice, passion, and ability to call out the powers that be to expose the darkness of this world. One man whose impact makes me ask myself WWJD? What Would Jussie Do? Say what you want about that man, but Jussie Smollett was for the people. That man was not playing about black folks and stood ten toes behind corrupt systems and powers. I don’t believe we’re mad enough, y’all. We haven’t set up a scheme like Todd did to come at them with the bullshit mad. We need to take some notes from our good brother and shake shit up! Where are the finesssers of our time? Where are the people willing to go hard on our behalf? I need us to get activated once we’re done resting and minding our business. Power to the people!

I’m Black and I’m Proud

It goes without saying that I am forever inspired by being black. Black history month this year was filled with so much pride and honor. Starting off this month, seeing the Haitian flag & ayiti be mentioned during Benito’s Superbowl performance (unfortunately without the Puerto Rican princess) made me so moved to be seen and represented as a Caribbean. Especially since there’s a clear effort to separate this region from America, but that’s another topic for another day. I spent more of my time in black asf spaces, have been working in Slauson/Crenshaw right in the newly named Nipsey Hussle Square, and seeing how as black folks, even when shit is rough we constantly come to each other’s defense and rescue in the midst of turmoil reminded me that I truly am blessed to occupy this skin that I’m in. My Valentine’s Day was even occupied with beautiful black folk, and it gave me even more of a moment to just look at us and be excited and in awe at all that we can do and have done. Every end of the month, I’m sad it’s come to an end. Black History for me isn’t reduced to a month; I have the honor of living it every day and seeing it be created right before my own eyes. I had a thought a few weeks ago, reflecting on what it means to be Black, specifically a Black Woman. I thought about how, in the event that we really only have one life to live, like this is our only lap around this thing we call life, how lucky am I to live and experience it as a Black woman, born and raised on American soil by way of Haiti? How lucky am I to carry, yes, the weight of these identities, but also the honor, the favor, and the diaspora that come with them. I wouldn’t want it any other way. No matter how much this world tries to get me to hate myself, I know I was made in the divine image of God. That no matter what is going on in this world, to my people or me, as long as I keep my head to the sky, I can win, like we’ve done many times before. I am rich, we are rich, and I am optimistic that this, too, shall pass. Happy Black History Month, Yall. Keep hope alive.

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I made this shift around this holiday when I was in kindergarten. One yea…

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Photo taken by the great Henri Cartier-Bresson - 1932

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Crickets are the ones making all the noise, but when you finally look their way, there’s nothing there. Sheep just go with the wind — wherever they’re led, that’s where they end up. Oxen are the ones who put their heads down and work. And lions? Lions lead the pack.

I’ve carried this allegory with me as I’ve moved through life, and it’s become the lens I use to make sense of the world. What I’ve noticed is that, interestingly enough, everyone has branded themselves as oxen and lions — the hustlers, the leaders, the main characters of their own shows. And at first glance, it really does look like folks are flawlessly embodying that. But if you look a little closer, it becomes painfully clear that most of it is performance.

These little boxes we carry around have convinced us that we’ve evolved into lions and oxen when, in reality, we’re becoming crickets and sheep. Loud as ever, saying nothing for real, and leading each other straight into oblivion. The collective noise has become relentless, overwhelming, and honestly way too much for my liking — and respectfully… I need y’all to shut the f*ck up.

I. CRICKETS: drowning in distraction

There’s so much noise out here that it’s starting to hum in the background like white noise — loud, constant, and numbing enough that we stop questioning it altogether. We’re in the “let’s have the conversation” era, where everyone feels compelled to talk just to be heard, and boy, do we love to talk, both verbally and non-verbally.

Between the story times, the rise of questionable hot takes on podcasts (including the New York Times inviting two white conservative women to talk about feminism… sigh), endless doomsday news reports, and the divisive thinkpieces from folks who don’t practice critical thinking on their best day, the world feels like a cafeteria — endless chatter, everyone talking at once, where instead of actually speaking to each other, people seem to be screaming at and over each other.

Which, to be honest, makes perfect sense. Shannon and Weaver argued that every message is just a signal competing with noise, and right now, the noise is drowning out absolutely everything.1

And when you finally manage to tune in to whatever someone is yelling about, it becomes painfully clear that they’re not saying anything forreal. It’s just more noise. We’ve reached a point where it feels like everyone is required to add to “the conversation,” when in reality… It’s okay not to say anything at all. But alas, folks persist. They keep talking and talking — spitting out hypotheticals, building whole personas and opinions based on lives they don’t actually live.

In her 2022 study, “Social Noise: The Influence of Observers on Social Media Information Behavior,” social media behavior and online self-presentation researcher Tara D. Zimmerman coined the term “social noise.”2 Zimmerman describes social noise as the distortion that occurs when we tailor our online communication for whoever might be watching. Her research shows that a lot of what we post or say online is shaped by audience pressure, not by who we actually are.

Zimmerman goes on to argue that the curation of our identities influences every part of our online behavior. We handpick the parts of ourselves we think people will accept, shape our posts to keep certain relationships smooth, and hold back anything that might start a conflict. Our cultural commitments — the groups we belong to and the values we want to be seen as upholding — also dictate how we communicate. Which means a lot of what we say online has less to do with honesty and more to do with maintaining an image. In other words, a facade.

And like crickets, we hype it up.

That curated facade doesn’t stay online — we end up performing off-screen too, handing over our agency and letting strangers tell us how to think, who to be, and what to care about. There’s a real disconnect happening. The pressure to perform or keep up with whatever the “communal thought” of the day is pulls people further and further away from themselves — and that can only last for so long.

II. SHEEP: losing the internal compass

In his 1985 book, “Amusing Ourselves to Death,” media theorist Neil Postman makes claims that speak directly to the world we live in today. Even though he was talking about television as the primary medium, his warnings are applicable to our digital age. He wrote that “when a population becomes distracted by trivia… when serious public conversation becomes a form of baby-talk,” people stop thinking and start drifting.3 Just like sheep who rely on external cues to decide where to go, don’t choose direction on their own, and follow whatever moves around them, we’ve been doing the same thing. By consuming whatever’s in front of us, imitating what entertains us, and mistaking spectacle for truth, we fail to follow what challenges us and fail to seek true meaning.

That’s today’s herd mentality.

’s article, “Healing Is Making Us Mean,” highlights how being chronically online reinforces this herd mentality.4 She says:

“Being the chronically online peons that we are has only made it easier and easier for us to ignore and reject the very idea of other people’s interior lives. The almighty algorithm trains us to scan for sameness… And in that constant self-reinforcement loop, we start to believe that our way of seeing the world is not just valid — it’s correct.”

And our good sis is absolutely right.

A 2023 study conducted by Hannah Metlzer and her team of researchers found that social-media algorithms don’t just reflect our behavior — they shape it. Their study determined that platforms systematically reinforce whatever we already engage with, recycling the same beliefs, preferences, and patterns back to us. Instead of exposing us to anything new, algorithms amplify the familiar, tightening the loop and making our existing views feel inevitable, popular, or “correct.” The result is a closed depth of perception just like sheep. We engage, and the algorithm mirrors us back to ourselves; the flock moves together in the same direction.5

In addition to limited perception and aimless following, sheep are also driven by emotion — they react to panic, not logic. If one sheep in the flock panics, the whole flock follows. And honestly, we’re not much different. Studies on social comparison (Vogel, Wang, Tian, Alfonso-Fuertes, Taylor) make it clear that being chronically online leaves us anxious, insecure, overstimulated, and emotionally volatile.6 The more we compare ourselves to curated feeds, the worse we feel. The more we perform, the more we fear being seen.

Just like them scary ass sheep, we react emotionally instead of thoughtfully because we’re moving through a world of noise that overwhelms us in some ways and starves us in others. The embodiment of the curated self creates an imbalance that breeds frustration and fear. The emotional static trickles down into us; we absorb each other’s reactions, opinions, and anxieties until our nervous systems sync with the chaos around us. And when we’re living in that frantic state, we stop looking inward and only focus on whatever is right in front of us, which often times, is each other.

Research on surveillance and data-driven platforms (Metzler, Büchi, Qi, Arora) shows that constant monitoring conditions us to conform.7 When you know you’re being watched — by friends, strangers, or an algorithm — you stop asking what you think and start asking what the crowd will approve, reinforcing yet another part of the cycle that makes it harder to hear ourselves. I also personally believe that surveillance has made it easier to “witness” people’s lives instead of actively participating in and being present in them. Leaving us to make assumptions and ignorant conclusions that form our own narratives about people’s lived experiences and in turn, adding to complicated dynamics in personal relationships.

Social noise has created a subconscious agreement where we feel entitled to someone else’s personal life while contributing nothing but likes and projections. I don’t care to give a play-by-play of my life with everyone at all times. I don’t think that keeping my romantic relationship private is due to a fear of being embarrassed. I don’t think I need to share my entire birthing journey, educational experiences, coffee shop visits, bar hops, or friend hangouts online with everyone if I don’t want to. No one is owed that. It also doesn’t mean my life is less whole or fulfilled because I’m not “proving it” with a post.

Herd mentality is something sheep rarely break out of. They don’t change direction on their own unless something interrupts them and forces them to stop and choose a different path.

It’s painfully clear that we’re conditioned to outsource our identity instead of sitting with ourselves, sorting through our own shit, and having the courage to actually be the person we say we are. Or, honestly, to even figure out if who we are right now is who we want to be in the first place.

Unlike sheep, a herd mentality is not who we are. We can reevaluate our lives and make a shift instead of doing what everyone else is doing, because if not, we, like sheep, will follow each other into dangerous situations. It may not look like falling off a cliff like it does for them, but if it looks like fading out and losing yourself in the process, is it really worth it?

I’d rather be the 1 of 99 if that’s the case.

We possess the ability to change and do something different. To interrupt ourselves. For us, that interruption is simple: learning to silence the noise.

III. OXEN: the silent work of reclaiming self

Since the beginning of September, I’ve been on a personal sabbatical, which has allowed me to take several steps back from noise and any activities that demand excessive social interaction. That involves deactivating social networks, retreating from social outings, and literally telling friends and associates to give me space until my birthday (12/31), unless it’s an emergency. I’ve even taken a step further and shared that I won’t be answering phone calls or texts, but I encourage folks to write me letters if they would like to remain in communication. This approach, for me, further reduces the noise of everyday conversations and gets to the heart of the matter.

The decision came as a result of realizing that I was overstiumlated, burning out, and lacking in emotional capacity. I began to notice that everything was exhausting me, my bandwidth and patience were getting shorter, my filter was fleeting, and I was literally on the verge of crashing out. I knew I needed to be still, turn inward, and engage in deep conversation and reflection with myself to understand the extent of what was going on. I knew that the stillness would tell me what I needed to know and where I needed to refocus my energy and attention. As someone who invests a great deal in personal relationships and the various communities I belong to, it was non-negotiable to put myself first, solidify my priorities, identify my needs, and reexamine my boundaries.

While I’ll save the full details of this season for another piece, stillness and silence have been the antidote to clarity for past, present, and future me. It’s given me the space to actually see and hear myself — to hear God — in ways I couldn’t when I was caught in the herd of sheep or struggling to shut out the endless noise of those damn crickets.

Silence and stillness are things I’ve learned to embrace over the years. I actively seek it, when at one point, I would do absolutely anything to run away from it. I needed to have those moments occupied with something because I knew what came with it if I didn’t. Silence is the space where God holds up a mirror to show you yourself. In that mirror, the mask we wear to perform for the world is removed, and all you’re left with is you. The raw, unfiltered self. The true self, who doesn’t let you escape the things deep in your heart that most would dare not share with anyone else. The space that visibly tells you the truth about how you feel about yourself and your life. The place so many of us seem to avoid at all costs.

All of this noise is more than people talking online. It’s the constant need to fill our days, our minds, our emotions with distractions — numbing agents — instead of sitting still long enough to actually hear ourselves. In leaning into a performative self, we lose the courage to face the truth of who we are and run from the responsibility of learning to love that person.

It’s evident that we’re dishonest in practice — replaying what’s being fed to us, not even stopping to ask whether it nourishes our souls or if it’s just the equivalent of fast food. A quick fix that makes us feel like we’re somebody in this world. Like we’re earning our place in society, in the conversation(s) by showing up with the same sentences. We’re talking inauthentic talks and walking inauthentic walks that could change if we just began by asking ourselves if the person we are right now is who we’re meant to be. If that’s who we even want to be.

How can we identify as truth seekers if we don’t seek the truth of ourselves? How can we call ourselves radicals if we’re not personally rejecting the status quo and reclaiming our own agency and time? How do we say we value presence when we’re spending more time online and or building a facade rather than investing in the real, physical parts of our lives — the parts that build our inner being and actually nourish the people around us? How can we value intellect if we don’t take the time to decide what we personally think? How can we claim ethics and values when we haven’t even named how we truly feel about an issue, let alone walked out those beliefs in real time? How can we call others fake when we don’t have the courage to take time to define ourselves for ourselves, and actually show up unapologetically as ourselves?

Until we learn to break away from being a reflection of the cycle we exist in and learn to work through the noise in order to see ourselves, society will not move forward. We as individuals will not move forward. If we can only meet others as deeply as we meet ourselves, it’s a no-brainer that we’re all in this shallow place.

IV. LIONS: leaders and changemakers

One of my favorite things about lions is that we don’t have to see them attack to know their impact. Most of the time when you visit a lion, they’re resting — silent, observant, minding their Black business. You don’t often hear them roar, but if you ever do, you won’t forget it.

Silence and stillness hold power.

In learning to move like lions (or, as Lil Wayne says, like a real G who moves in silence like lasagna), it’s essential to understand that silence is one of the greatest practices of peace. I have an unspoken rule of “quiet hours” in my place — intentional time to enjoy silence, especially in the mornings. Until noon, my home is calm and still, setting the tone for meditation and intention that carries through the entire day. And while I know this is a privilege — and baby, trust me, I enjoy it — there are plenty of other ways to welcome silence.

One of the best is to stop sharing everything with everyone and start exploring things on your own. Learning to enjoy something privately — a hobby, a new album, a secret view, a shop you love, a glass of wine at a wine bar — gives you the chance to actually sit with yourself, your thoughts, your likes, and your dislikes. Some things really are just for you, and keeping them that way builds a deeper connection with yourself.

Another way to embrace silence is to identify where the most noise is coming from and seek ways to minimize it. If that means you don’t hang with a draining person as much or choose to minimize contact, go for it. If that means you stop showing up to functions, bet. If that means instead of nighttime scrolling, you read a chapter before bed, make it happen. Know where the noise is loudest and find ways to chip away at it.

More and more, people are reclaiming their peace and cutting off the noise from the digital world. It brings me real joy to see folks returning to physical media — iPods, DVDs, vinyl — choosing presence over performance. At my big age, something I’ve been blessed to experience where I live is how often adults are outside in the park: having picnics, hanging out, reading books, touching grass, just being. I personally make it a point to bring my bubbles with me in case I need to help regulate my nervous system because… why wouldn’t I? I also have a lockbox for my phone, app-blocking software, and Crazy Aaron’s Thinking Putty to play with when I feel like picking up my phone just because. People are fighting to find ways back to themselves. To remember and discover who they are, and I love that for all of us.

Recently, I’ve been especially inspired by 24-year-old Harvard graduate , the founder of the “appstinence” movement. Nguyen — a Silicon Valley native who grew up in a world where social media has always existed — is reminding people that social media is actually optional. In her piece “Gen Z, Social Media Is Optional,” she breaks down the emotional and psychological consequences of being constantly online and shares her 5D model (Decrease, Deactivate, Delete, Downgrade, Depart) for slowly silencing social noise and reclaiming our focus, presence, and relationships with ourselves and others.8

To me, Gabriela is a perfect example of what it looks like to move like a lion — grounded, intentional, and unbothered by the herd. And I love to see it.

—-

For the longest time, I used to think the allegory shared with me about crickets, sheep, oxen, and lions was a characterization set in stone, fixed categories into which we just fell and were predestined. Now that I’ve gotten older, I understand that these are phases and reflections. We get the opportunity to decide what we want to be.

I encourage you to think about who you are in this season of your life.

Are you adding to the noise? Allowing it to consume you. Have you become a shell of yourself and live a life that doesn’t feel real? Doesn’t express your inner self? Are you actively working to dismantle these conditions? To radically work towards self-acceptance, love, and presence? Have you mastered the journey of becoming and have something to share with others? Are you leading by example and shifting how you engage with noise?

I understand that some of us prefer the noise. Thrive in it. Have built communities, careers, and much more as a result of it. I get that, and I’m not here to judge. I can’t speak for anyone by myself, but I don’t care to be a cricket: small in thought, constantly making noise, hiding just to be heard, and never truly seen. I’ve grown past being a sheep: frantically moving in the direction that cyloed beliefs, projections, thoughts are destined to take me. The death of my individual self. As uncomfortable as it might be, I’m choosing to be in the discomfort of silence to hear myself enough to know who I am and be courageous enough to show up as the lion whose voice and words carry the magnitude of a roar. I know I deserve to boldly show up as myself, no matter how cringe it may seem or how it challenges others to be more than they’ve been conditioned to be.

My hope is for you to reconnect with yourself, to discover who you are, and to give yourself the permission to be that person unapologetically. To know the peace of a regulated nervous system. To sit still enough to discover that you actually do desire true love, connection, and community, and that you’re hookup season might be coming to an end. To realize it’s time to quit your job, leave that relationship, or that you’ve simply outgrown those spaces. For you to realize (and I’ll hold your hand when I say this) that you are literally lactose intolerant. Please start taking care of that. And, beyond anything else, that you can actually do things differently, and it’s never too late to work towards living a more fulfilling life.

So please, for once in your natural born life, shut the f*ck up.

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In high school, I used to joke and say that there was a monkey named Billy banging cymbals in my brain as a means to explain all my nonsense. I didn’t know anything about monkey brain, but clearly had the concept embedded in me, so welcome to my ramblings. If it’s y…

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I was scrolling on Substack, dragging my feet to finish this piece, when I came across a quote from that said, “Fruit is not the focus. It’s the byproduct of a healthy system.” I’m thankful I stalled long enough to find that, because that quote perfectly captures my relationship to my most recent project, Bear Fruit.

This project means so much to me. It’s incredibly close to my heart, not just because it’s the first creative project I’ve worked on in a very long time, but because it explores a topic I care deeply about. It’s given me the chance to plant a seed alongside some of the most incredible men I know. A seed meant to challenge and dismantle the unhealthy systems that keep Black and Brown communities from truly growing.

At first, it felt like this project happened by accident, but after taking time to reflect, I realize it was born out of countless conversations and personal experiences that led me here. I never imagined myself directing, writing a treatment, or leading an impact campaign, but like many things that are divinely guided, this had been in motion long before I realized it. I was being led down a path of creation that God was already unfolding, and he would use me and the hands that have touched—and continue to touch—in this project as vessels.

What seemed to be scattered threads slowly started to weave themselves into something intentional.

Featured artist, Rugby LoSport, and Director of Photography, J R Alexander on the set of Bear Fruit 5/19/2024

I.  All About Love by bell hooks

I was moved by the introduction to bell hooks and found myself in a space where I was thinking deeply about love—what it means, how we talk about it, and how black and brown people engage with it. I was challenged to think deeper about my relationship to it and to identify what I need from it as a Black woman. That’s what sparked my desire to discuss love more regularly and intentionally.

As I reflected, one of the most pressing questions became: What do I, as a Black woman, need from Black men? And even more broadly, what do we, as Black women, need in general?And the answer that kept echoing back to me was: We need rest.

The truth of the matter is that we’re dying. Black and brown women (specifically Latinas)  are dying from stress, from neglect, and being under-cared for. I thought about the high mortality rates in childbirth, how often our mental health goes undetected or untreated, how conditions like endometriosis and PCOS, rooted in hormonal imbalances, are dismissed or overlooked, how 84% of trans women who have been murdered are black and brown and how as Black & Brown women, we are the world’s caretakers, yet no one seems to be caring for us.

When we’re in relationships with Black and Brown men—not always, but often—there’s a dynamic where our needs aren’t seen. Beyond financial provision, there’s a lack of emotional presence and partnership. That’s not to generalize, but it’s a reality I’ve experienced and witnessed repeatedly. And it made me reflect on how true collaboration requires mental and emotional maturity—not just doing things, but being present.

One evening, I got into a debate with a black man about something I felt didn’t concern him or any other man, Sexxy Redd & what she does with her coochie. What began as a grievance on his end developed into a conversation around what we as a community truly need to focus on. I noted how some black men seem to care more about what black women do, regarding our expression through how we present ourselves, our sexuality, etc., and make it a point to criticize us, rather than addressing our needs as a form of care, their healing, or creating systemic change. 

He followed with “What do you mean? Women don’t care about our mental health. Y’all tell us to shut the fuck up.” Defensive, I quickly shot back and noted how black & brown women not only care, but also deal with the brunt of the lack of healing and growth, along with black and brown children. I also followed with “Do you care about these issues yourself? What are you doing about the suicide rates of black men in our community?”1 While he didn’t have an answer, I took this conversation back and posed those questions to myself. If I also truly cared about the mental health and healing of black and brown men, what exactly was I doing to combat the death of black and brown men at the hands of suicide?

Being a safe space for Black and Brown men is something I don’t take lightly—it’s an honor I hold close. Since I was young, I’ve had countless meaningful relationships with men and learned so much from them. Some of the most important relationships in my life have been with my male friends—brothers, homies, mentors, and family members.

I’ve often been the one girl in a group of guys—the tomboy. The listener offering advice. The hearer of wild stories, and the helper who can talk through difficult moments. Because of that, I’ve witnessed the layers: the complications of dating, the nuances of being in community, and the strength of chosen family. These experiences have shifted my tomboy persona into a more maternal one, understanding that, unintentionally, my presence offers a balm. 

For this reason, my belief in the beauty, power, and potential of Black and Brown men has only deepened. I carry moments and secrets they’ve trusted me with—glimpses into their struggles, joys, and quiet complexities. Those glimpses have taught me how delicate some of these things are.

However, in recognizing my deep connection to Black and Brown men, I’m also mindful of my struggles in building romantic relationships, partnerships, or deeper emotional connections with them. Because of my unique position—being so closely connected to men in non-romantic ways—I’ve learned to anticipate how things can unfold.

I’ve witnessed and experienced the complications that arise. Questions around safety, autonomy, power dynamics, and the challenge of receiving provision that includes presence and emotional intelligence. These aren’t easy truths, but they’re real. As I hold space for these truths—and remind myself that it’s not my job to fix anyone but myself—I struggled to pinpoint the ways I was directly combating suicidality and other systemic issues that contribute to these dynamics in my community. Am I doing enough? Should I be doing more? What does that look like? How does one even begin to combat these significant issues? In my thinking, I came up with the first solution. 

Speak up. 

While working through these complexities, I chose to voice these issues with the men in my life in hopes that we can begin to imagine and build new ways of relating together. Ways that we first recognize and then slowly work towards breaking systemic relationship dynamics that have long hindered how we love each other. That has disrupted our ability to be raw and present with one another. 

In speaking up, I’ve realized that men feel these dynamics too. They’re carrying this weight oftentimes in silence and confusion. Still, in that recognition, I also felt the familiar weight of being a Black woman—laboring once again in ways that may go unseen, unheard, or unreciprocated. Still, I know I’ve been gifted a language to speak to men for a reason. If my honesty and care can challenge even one harmful belief, helping to make things softer, safer, and more possible for the next woman, child, and community member, then the work is worth it. 

I desire a (Western) world where Black and Brown men can live in loving ways—not only with each other, but also with the female and femme figures—not just coexisting or surviving without the tools to dismantle the deeper issues within our relationships.

From romance, to the complexities of our dynamics with parents—especially mothers—to the persistent pattern of abandoning one another in pursuit of “ease” or “understanding” with other races as a means of survival rather than love—these are the patterns I long to see us confront.

When we address these issues, we gain the tools to help each other navigate the complexity, hold one another accountable, and choose connection over avoidance. 

I’m okay with helping craft the path for the horse to water, especially if it means equipping Black and Brown men to lead one another there to drink.

These imaginations laid the foundation for the vision and perspective that guided my influence in this project. 

II. Who will cry for the little boy? 

*In the spirit of speaking up, the following experience is one I’m sharing publicly for the first time. It is of no benefit to me or those impacted to remain silent, so I’m sharing with the parties’ permission for the sake of healing and transparency. 

In early 2022, a toxic & cancerous friendship I had ended. 

My collection of “good” memories became tainted by the realization that the entire relationship was rooted in a trauma bond. What was presented to me as care was control, surveillance disguised as concern, and manipulation masked as love. Ultimately, all of it was overshadowed by the truth: this person uses their power and influence to manipulate, control, and harm.

Due to their occupation in [redacted city], this person holds a public persona of being a socially aware creative who values community care and mutual aid. At the same time, behind closed doors, they engage in behavior that I recognize as coercive and emotionally abusive. What complicates things further is the disconnect between how they present—empathetic, brave, and seemingly grounded in radical values—whilst the reality is someone unstable, manipulative, and consumed by paranoia. Someone who uses their influence to control and intimidate those closest to them.

This became especially clear at the end of our friendship, when I began setting boundaries and removing access, they spiraled. They became obsessed with the idea that I would publicly share my experience of their behavior, especially with a man they were interested in. Instead of reflecting on the harm they had caused, they fixated on the possibility that I had feelings for him and that my decision to walk away was rooted in jealousy. They were more concerned with protecting their image—especially in front of him—than taking accountability for the damage they’d done and their use of manipulation in relationships. The obsession continued through stalking—something I would later learn they had a long history of using as a tool for control and intimidation, similar to Baby Raindeer. 

Another wild contrast was that this person—a female/femme-presenting individual who sincerely desires to be seen by and valued by men, and is a “mental health advocate”—is also someone I’ve witnessed using abusive and coercive tactics to control, manipulate, and harass men—specifically Black and Brown men, thus actively contributing to the destruction of their mental health.

I was unaware of her treatment of black and brown men until sometime after our friendship ended. I was grieving the loss of my sister, moving from one place to another, and found discussing the details around this on a larger scale outside of my immediate circle annoying and exhausting, so instead I chose to move forward and focus on my healing. As I healed, I kept finding myself in situations where information surrounding this person and her behavior would come to me, unprompted. These constant encounters would ultimately reveal the truth and expose the harm resulting from her hands.

One instance of this was an unexpected reconnection with someone I had known since high school and considered a good friend. He and my ex-friend were formerly “married,” and due to her allegations of abuse on his part, I ended my friendship with him without hesitation. The allegations were common knowledge, and through her sharing this with mutual friends, colleagues, and anyone who would listen, he faced public backlash and was, in many ways, “cancelled.” Due to this, we naturally didn’t speak for years. One day, I saw that he watched an Instagram story of mine, which was random because we didn’t follow each other at the time, but I took it as a chance to reach out. I messaged him and shared that I owed him an apology. That I finally understood what he’d been going through to an extent. Although initially hesitant, he made time and space to hear me out. In that conversation, I was able to apologize and share my experience, to which he felt a sense of relief and gratitude that someone had finally believed him. That opportunity was not only my opportunity to make atonement for dismissing him, but also to hear his whole experience in depth.  

Towards the end of that conversation, I better understood how they ended up together in the first place. From the beginning, intimidation and manipulation were used, and he ultimately caved. While I didn’t have a direct relation to being forced into a relationship with this person, this dynamic mirrored the experience of another friend of mine who was also a black man. 

The man in question was the one whom my former friend believed I had secret feelings for. Despite the messy ending of that friendship, he and I remained in contact, but I kept a distance and didn’t speak about the details of our falling out to avoid coming off as malicious or spiteful. In conversations where we’d catch up, he would ask what happened between us, and I would prompt him to speak to her because I wanted her to share the truth. Of course, that never happened. 

Eventually, we caught up over drinks, and I shared my entire experience from start to finish. I even had screenshots of conversations, burner pages, time stamps, and such to corroborate my claims. I could show him the depth and extent of the surveillance I was experiencing. After sharing this with him, I saw him visibly shift in demeanor, taking in all the information and processing. He looked at me with disappointment and visible hurt and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” 

I wasn’t quite sure what he meant at first, but he soon revealed that he had been experiencing the same behavior from that former friend. He shared how she would stalk him, call his girlfriend non-stop from blocked numbers, and manipulate him with empty promises—saying she’d stop if he just did xyz. He showed me emails and threats, and told stories of how she tried to sabotage his reputation by discouraging others from working with him, only to turn around and offer him paid opportunities on her projects. It became clear that this was an attempt to force him into a romantic relationship with her.

Towards the end of my friendship with her, she told me they were together, which I brought up to him, and he immediately clarified they were never in a relationship. That moment confirmed what we had both started to realize: she had a calculated plan all along. It also explained why she had avoided sharing the real reasons our friendship ended.

We kept talking, comparing stories, and processing the manipulation’s depth. The harassment went on for months, and honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s still trying to find ways to make contact even now.

A screenshot from one of many interactions with a burner account used by my former friend to stalk me, her ex, and others. I found the account after noticing two back-to-back likes on a post from an unfamiliar profile. Something nudged me to look closer. In their likes, I found tweets of mine—including two that referenced them directly—as well as tweets from their ex-husband, as far back as the time of their breakup in 2020 and as recent as January 2022. This account wasn’t just used to watch me, but to surveil multiple people. They also tweeted things that raised serious concerns, which I won’t name here. The account has since been deactivated.. to my knowledge.

After reflecting on everything we shared, one thing kept echoing: the feeling of powerlessness. My friend spoke openly about his desire to defend himself—even retaliate—but didn’t feel like he could. In both his case and her ex’s, the idea of a woman harassing a man was quickly dismissed. If either of them reacted publicly, they risked being labeled “too emotional,” or worse, being seen as violent.

The pattern of engaging with men in whom she had a romantic interest became pronounced. I started remembering other scenarios where she reframed the story to make herself the victim and rallied people around her to isolate or punish the person she had targeted. And it wasn’t just men. This behavior extended to anyone who challenged her narrative or failed to meet her expectations.

I was forced to think deeply about how we deal with Black and Brown men’s mental health. The former friend is vocal about her mental health struggles, but often gets a pass. I believe part of that has to do with her being a mixed woman who is part white, which is essential to note because the world is far more willing to empathize with white people's pain than it is with the pain of Black and Brown folks, especially men. She has continued to have incidents involving manipulation—even physical abuse—and yet no one has publicly stepped up to hold her accountable. So it raises the question: are we complicit in the harm being done to Black and Brown men?

That experience forced me to reexamine so much—how we understand gender, talk about power, and what real accountability and care look like. It deepened my understanding of mental health—of the burdens people carry silently, and how often we misread where harm is coming from and who’s hurting. It has also brought into perspective that while there’s a level of empathy to have with folks who are working through mental health struggles, compassion and accountability can co-exist in the same place. 

III. Sowing Seeds. Bearing Fruit

One day, I got a phone call from one of my closest friends/little brother, Rugby LoSport, or Rugby for short. Although he’s a royal pain in my ass, he’s one of my favorite people and a talented artist. I know everyone and their mom are rappers these days, but this dude is the real deal. I’m talking about old-school 90s hip hop.2 I constantly get caught in his freestyles about absolutely anything, but that skill alone is truly a rarity in today’s hip-hop world. He is also one of the funniest people I know, and I’m convinced that he and I need to start a podcast. I’m sure it’d be something like Cam’Ron & Ma$e’s podcast, It Is What It Is.

Similar to other times like before, he sent me one of his many verses on a song, but this one stopped me and made me call him back immediately after. I was moved because while I know my brother and some of the things he goes through, this was one of his rawest verses I had ever heard. It was layered and intense, and for the first time, he was pulling back the layers and allowing people to see parts of him that they don’t see, and it was inspiring, beautiful even to see a young black man being bold and vulnerable on a track. 

He answered my call, and I remember telling him two things: first, that Funeral Ant Bell, my brother, high school classmate, a recent Harvard grad with a Master’s in Creative Writing, should be featured on this track, and funny enough, he was already set to be the third verse on the song.3 That alignment was too elite. The second was that I was so moved and inspired that I felt compelled to write. I didn’t know where to start, but I knew I had to write down my vision for this song in my head. 

I started with the notes of what I saw in my head, then a music video treatment, and by the time I pitched the idea to the artist, Kadeem, I had a full-fledged impact campaign to accompany the music video idea. I knew that while the music video would be impactful, there’s more that we could and should do with a topic around black and brown men’s mental health awareness, and it didn’t feel right to cut that conversation short. Nothing like this had ever been done in [redacted city], so I knew the impact would be felt.4 

During my pitch, I shared with Kadeem that I wanted the hands to touch this project to be exclusive to brown and black men. This was especially important to me because too many times I’ve seen these topics end up in the hands of a third party that can’t handle the nuances of these stories, and I didn’t want that to happen with this. I also knew that this would bring exposure to the beautiful work of black and brown men and their talent, including the Director. Kadeem resonated with me and agreed to my terms and vision for his song. 

As we began, Kadeem brought on J R Alexaner, a talented visual artist and friend I’d been connected to for several years, as Director of Photography.5 I was most familiar with his commercial work for the brand Bodega, where he contributed so much of his expertise and creativity to the company. A true gem and visual mastermind whose talent deserves so much recognition. I knew without a doubt that if this were in his hands, it would be beautifully shot. I’d meet with the two regularly and help plan the details. I also mentioned that since I’d be in town for when they shoot, I’d be down to help. Amid the conversation, Kadeem suggested, “Why don’t you just direct it? You wrote it. You’re building the impact campaign. You might as well direct it.” 

I froze up and was a bit nervous because although this was something I’ve done in the past, this dream had surely passed its time, right? Besides, directing this was never something I initially planned to do. I didn’t think it was my lane. I thought about it for a second and realized he was right. It was hard to accept because it had been so long since I directed something, and I almost let imposter syndrome stop me.

But somehow—maybe out of delusion or courage—I said yes. Something in me just went, “Yeah, sure. I’ll direct it.” And I’m so glad I did.

From the beginning, we imagined everything with intention. From the scenes to the equipment to the visual references, we discussed vignettes and leaned on “Euphoria” as a visual anchor. I pulled in references from specific films and moments, like that scene from the movie where Daniel Kaluuya shoots the members of The Cool Kids. J R and I just knew what we wanted, and it was so dope to have someone see the things I was imagining in my brain and take it up three notches. 

Even our location was spot on. We discussed our thoughts, and Kadeem mentioned that he knew the perfect place. When we got to the space, J R and I looked at each other and said “yoooooooo” because we both could see what was in our brains in real time. It was the perfect alignment. It was one of those magical moments when everything clicks. You put the vision out there, and it starts to take shape. It was growing, evolving, becoming something real.

The day of the shoot was beautiful. One of my favorite parts was having my friend Anthony’s dad in the video. It was initially supposed to be his mom, but his dad came instead, which honestly worked out even better for what we were trying to say.

Another beautiful moment was filming a scene with Rugby and the actress, Troi, who is his love interest. I was directing the scene as an argument, and my direction wasn’t getting the results I hoped for. The guys on set were watching, and one said to me, “I think it’s not coming across because a man wouldn’t really react that way; he might pull her in by her waist first, causing the reaction you’re looking for.” Initially, I was a bit put off, but he was right, and I encouraged the note. A few others jumped in to help with the scene, and ultimately helped explain to Rugby what I couldn’t in order to get the shot. Had I stepped into my ego in that moment, that would have not only compromised that scene, but also take away the sense of pride and ownership that was distributed in that room.

I also had the honor of including one of my mentors in the shoot. Someone who's been in my corner since I was 19, when I first started doing creative work in [redacted city]. A lot of people call him Lee or Square, a muralist, a youth advocate, and an innovative force in the town.6 He’s been like a North Star for me—guiding me, even from afar, always cheering me on.

Having him on set, playing the moderator for our group therapy scene, made sense. He helped shape many of us in that room throughout our lives, and had a personal connection to a few of us individually. It was important to me that those moments didn’t feel fake. I didn’t want them just sitting around pretending. I wanted it to be real. I wrote a list of questions for the group to go through together, and everyone actually talked and answered those questions in real time. While they talked, J R did his thing and filmed it all. He had a clear vision for the kind of b-roll he wanted and the types of vignettes he would capture. He was so intentional, and we just created for hours. On top of that, I was extremely blessed to have the amazing color this project. Having such a talent who is also a film lover like me and known for his work was the icing on the cake. I was so honored that he would add to this well.7

Although it ran longer than expected, it was worth every second. The shoot and time spent in that space were beautiful and a privilege. What struck me the most was how powerful it was to create a space where Black men could be. In one corner, you had JR doing his thing, which was totally in his element. In another, someone was drawing. In another, someone was making beats. It was this beautiful, bizarre mix of creative energy—Black and Brown men just vibing, playing, being silly, talking about wrestling, or reminiscing about albums from their childhood. No one was trying to be macho. No one was posturing. They were just being themselves. They were safe. 

BTS of the cast and crew on the set of Bear Fruit, 5/19/2024

Bear Fruit has taught me the value of creating space, seeing people, and giving black & brown men, who were once boys, the chance to imagine again. That with each imagination, there’s an opportunity to actualize a different reality that will bloom into an ecosystem of change. I’m not naive about what we’re up against in society, and I don’t assume that I can do it alone, but I do know the value of chipping away at something one swing at a time. Those swings look like different people, radical philosophies on love, and actions that disrupt the conditioning that contribute to the harm in my community.

I desire to leave seeds of love for all people, especially people who look like me, in hopes that the fruit they bear will produce more of the same. That, alongside these seeds, we can build new systems—healthier ones—where that fruit can thrive and new seeds can grow. And if that means I have to get out of my head, out of my way, then who am I to stop what God has already begun? Who are you to deny yourself the chance to be the vessel you were called to be?

To the Black and Brown men: this labor of love, Bear Fruit, is for you. The world may not offer you much, but this is a seed, birthed in love. It might be no more than a mustard seed, but I hope you plant it. And from it, may good fruit spring forth, so your days and the generations that come from you are abundant in all things, especially love. I hope all the dreams that the world told you were too big, unreal, and impossible return to you. That you have the courage to dream again, and that there are healthier systems in place where all of your dreams can come true.

Without further ado, I present to you, Bear Fruit.

This series is for the artists and dreamers who were learning to let go of what they once hoped for—only to find themselves, unexpectedly, living the very dream they thought they'd lost.

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When I was 19, I moved to LA for the first time. I had the chance to do a semester abroad, and of all places, I chose Los Angeles. Something in me had always felt connected to this city, so naturally, I saw it as my opportunity to figure out why.

I was drawn here because I was set on becoming a film director, and all my favorites were in Cali. Back in Boston, I started doing photography in high school, and listened to Kendrick, Dom Kennedy, Odd Future, The Pack, and so many others before most of my peers. One day at a basketball game, a friend casually said, "Yo, you ever think about doing music videos?" I paused and said, "Kinda, but not really." He replied, "You should think about it. You'd be good at it." And he was right. I was always critiquing videos, seeing their visual potential, so I noted that my ability to break things down that way meant something. When I was fifteen, I had strong opinions about what Kanye did with Drake's Best I Ever Had video, indicating that vision was important to me.

I bravely decided that I'd ditch becoming a pediatrician and chose to follow that dream in college. The only problem? I ended up at a school with no film program. But I knew there was a chance to study abroad, and I held on to that. Good on me.

The road to LA wasn't simple, though. I started off as a music major (thinking, somehow, that it would help me make music videos) and completely failed my first semester. Still, I stayed in the a cappella choir and kept up with my piano and voice lessons, which led me to my voice teacher Jean Danton, who helped me see things more clearly. Jean told me, "To be a director, you have to understand how everything works." She affirmed that I was in the right place, because how could I execute vision if I didn't understand the people I was directing or the people who would help bring my vision to life?

That gave me a sense of freedom and placed a strategy before me. I gave myself permission to try new things, to learn, to be led—because I knew my time to lead would come. From that point on, I did everything I could. I became a better performer, started acting, kept up with photography, and learned from my directors. I pursued anything creative to teach me how to be a better director. And then right in the middle of my college journey, I took the leap and went to LA.

My friend Naya & I in 7/11 in Mid-City 💚 Two Boston girlies on a LA journey. While I was in my program, Naya had also started school for make-up. I love this photo because it's such a time, and it’s so beautiful to see how far we’ve come. Watch more of our shenanigans in Miami a couple of years ago at Art Basel.

Being in LA was a no-brainer for me. I knew I needed to be in the place where it all came together. The semester I spent in Los Angeles opened my eyes to possibility. I felt like I could do it all because I was finally around people who were like-minded and creative.

The Los Angeles Film Studies Center was the first time I was surrounded by fellow cinephiles.1 People who loved film and television as much as I did. That semester, I interned at Haven Entertainment and got a better understanding of what producers actually did and got to learn a bit more about documentary filmmaking.2 I was so fascinated that I made my first documentary and loved every second.3

LA showed me how capable I was. I showed up with ideas, potential, swag, and a skateboard, and would skate around Fairfax back when Odd Future would kick it in the GOLF store regularly. But I was also confronted with everything I didn't have: access to equipment, an interest in the canon of films my white male counterparts deemed "essential," and maybe even the "right" approach to filmmaking. Being from the East Coast, I experienced my first real culture clash. I remember a moment at my internship—one of the producers had clearly had a rough night, to which I said, "You look tired, can I grab you some coffee?" My supervisor, his assistant, scolded me: "You can't just say that to someone!" I was confused. I was just being honest and offering help. Thankfully, the producer was also from the East Coast and understood where I was coming from, and didn't take it personally.

That moment was my first real encounter with how drastically different expectations and norms could be, coast to coast, and in the industry. It was as if individuality was problematic. Another pivotal moment came when a producer pulled me aside. She was a white woman I respected and told me plainly, "You have to do more. You're a woman. You're a Black woman. This industry will be hard on you."

At the time, I internalized it. I started dressing more "professionally," acting more like what I thought was expected of me. Looking back, I realize she wasn't encouraging me to show up as myself—she was asking me to assimilate. She was preparing me for an industry that wasn't built with me in mind. I get it now, but at the time, it was discouraging.

My actual internship work didn't feel creative at all. I manned the front desk. I did menial tasks. I wasn't challenged or inspired. When I got my final grade—a C—I was shocked. I had done what was asked but hadn't done "enough" to impress the right people. I didn't understand why I needed to prove myself to people who barely noticed I was there. I wasn't willing to kiss the ring.

I also took a networking class during that time. It taught me that networking isn't about using people, but is actually about building relationships. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that I needed to "up my game." I'm naturally a people's person, so this came easily to me, and was something that I would grow tired of in later years. At the time, it was dope to meet and connect with people, but as I got older, I realized that everyone was trying to network with everyone. Instagram became a collection of people waiting for the other to "make it" so they could, in some capacity, be connected with success that isn't their own.

My Fall 2014 LAFSC class. Love them so much. I still keep in touch with so many of these folks, and again, love to see how far we’ve all come.

After that semester, I returned home to finish school. Back in Boston, I felt the absence of what I had in LA—no crew, no shared passion, no resources. I didn't want to be an editor or a producer; I just wanted to direct. But I quickly realized I had to wear every hat to do what I loved.

By 2016, Boston was experiencing a creative boom. But many people directing films or visuals, particularly white male directors, had no connection to the city. They came in filming flashy videos with no substance, using effects as a cover for a lack of story. It was discouraging. I felt like I couldn't compete. I watched my friends get exploited for their skills and talents, while others built their brands off our backs. It frustrated me even more because I knew I could do great work. I was making progress in directing theatre as an undergrad, but I didn't feel it was enough to compare it with the work I was doing in film. In retrospect, I wasn't thinking about how theatre challenged me in ways that directors were challenged every day. I could only see that I wasn't doing what my peers did. The illusion of missing out, or this "lack of practice," contributed to a lack of confidence and began fading my directing dream.

Soon after graduating, I returned to LA—not for film, but because it was a strategy to get to film school. I got involved in video sets again, working on a T-Pain video as a PA for my friend JMP.4 I did photography here and there and connected with a few artists and A&R, but something started to shift. I focused more on building a name, proving that I was lit, and trying to make money off my skills vs. nurturing the art. My love for the craft began to fade under the pressure to "make it."

I applied to film school right before COVID and got rejected from all three programs. One waitlisted me, then rejected me. I was devastated and began to question everything. Was I supposed to be doing this? Maybe not. Had I been accepted, I would've been in film school during the pandemic. My friend Elijah, whom I encouraged to apply to AFI, got in and struggled through filming during COVID, and it was tough to watch.5 Mainly because of how complicated things had gotten during that time for the industry, but also because I saw a friend do the thing I believed I was meant to do.

So I pivoted.

I leaned into art education since I've always loved teaching and social media/content creation, while my focus on film shifted. Like most people going live during the pandemic, my friend Catherine and I started Movie Mommas, where we dissected Criterion films. Around the same time, I began working for a boutique marketing agency, working on digital marketing campaigns for film festivals and indie projects, specifically documentary. I was back in the world I loved—talking to filmmakers, learning from them, being inspired. But the higher I climbed, the clearer it became: this wasn't my mountain. This wasn't my view. I was gaining success in an area I wasn't passionate about, and once I realized that, it was as if I couldn't unsee it. I didn't want to be marketing the products; I wanted to create.

The agency I worked for spoke a lot about building a creative economy, which was a powerful thing to consider. They took the time to give us space to create and nurture ideas, but I was uninspired and seeking stability. I would constantly be asked what I wanted to do. It was frustrating because I wanted the space to create a stable foundation to build on. I didn't even think to direct, because I didn't feel my voice was valued enough to tell stories I cared about. Instead, I tried to mold myself into what they needed, but nothing fit. I wasn't growing—I was compromising. Eventually, the whole thing crumbled. And I believe that was divine intervention.

Top: & I’s first Movie Mamas Poster. To be honest, I miss this so much and am constantly thinking of how we’re able to make this happen with us living on two separate sides of the country. We’ll figure it out. We won’t stop til we make it to the Criterion Closet.

Bottom: The agency I worked for did marketing for DOC NYC, and it was such an experience to be here. I got to see Werner Herzog, Idina Menzel, Alfre Woodard, Dawn Porter, and so many others. During this event, I heard Sonya Childress accept her visionary award, and it made me realize I was climbing the wrong mountain. I’m forever grateful to her and truly appreciative of that moment.

I stopped creating for a while. I was done with any form of creative expression I once enjoyed. It was too painful because I felt that no matter what I did, I was misunderstood when in reality, none of the environments I was in were built for me or conducive to my creativity. Then, I did the hippy-dippy LA thing to do. I picked up The Artist's Way.

If you've done it, you know it gets you together. It revealed how malnourished my creativity had become. I had to nurse that part of myself back to health. And as I did, it was like an overflow. The ideas, the visions, the skills I thought I lost came rushing back. I couldn't ignore it anymore.

I began to express myself in other ways—through cooking, writing, and dreaming again. Slowly, I tapped back into the part of myself that had vision and clarity. I realized that directing had never left me. That I've always had vision, but I allowed others to insert themselves in a personal creative conversation between me & God. I drowned God out, let them speak, and lost my voice in the process.

I started writing, pitching, producing, and finally directing without even noticing that I was being called to pick up all the areas of creating I left behind.

Now, at 30, I'm in a place where no one is telling me how to be. Though it looks different than before, my dream is being restored, and I'm grateful to have a space to share this journey back to myself. I used to wonder how Ava DuVernay directed her first film at 32 without following a traditional path. It puzzled me how she could start so “late” and still succeed. But I recently came across an interview where she explained it all—and now, I get it. She said that while she didn't have formal training, she had lived and had something to say. Instead of fixating on what she lacked, she leaned into what she already carried.

That is what creating is really about: expression.

It took me a while to get to that realization, but now? I'm reclaiming this part of myself and choosing to create on my own terms. I'm grateful that I allowed the dream to return—and even more thankful that I had the courage to answer when it did.

This series is about my journey back to my creative self. It's about rediscovery. It's about the sparks, the ideas, the moments that brought me back to life. I'll be sharing different projects I've worked on and how I ended up there. I'll be sharing my process, BTS, and anything in between. This series isn't limited to a craft. If there's anything you must know about me, it's that expression is first, the mediums are just the crayons in a crayon box, and I'm in the process of coloring a mosaic, and I want to bring you along this journey.

If you've been a creative who hasn't touched your art in a long time, I hope this series allows you to dream again. I want you to know that dreams don't always quietly wait for you—they crash back into your life, wild and unapologetic.

Sometimes, they return in whispers; other times, like mine, they arrive like a holy disruption. God bulldozed mine back in when I thought it was buried for good. I was ready to shrink, to become someone I was never meant to be. But just in time, my dream came back—bruised maybe, but alive. And this time, I met it with open arms. Hesitant at first, but open nonetheless. Not as who I was, but as who I'm becoming.

I hope that if your dreams find you again, you embrace their return.

💚

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