She wore luxury but no peace
She spoke of me and cut deep
I cut free, had to flee
Had to feel joy for me
The abuse
is over
Cuz over and over I forgave
She said she loved me
But just lied to my face
And embraced
the pain from years and years
of fear
I had to go.
Because I love myself now.
She has to know
Her money can't keep me around.
Yesterday, I was by the water. Just sitting. Relaxing. Breathing.
It was overcast but warm—somehow 80 degrees—and the air was soft and kind, even by the harbor. I saw buses moving into the city and toward the casino. The Ferris wheel beside me turned slowly. Everything was in motion, but nothing felt rushed.
That’s new for me.
I’ve been moving fast for so long, I forgot what it felt like to slow down. To just be—not because everything is done, but because I choose to rest anyway. And yesterday? I chose. I had a paint and sip class scheduled to enjoy some creative time once I finished with the harbor view.
That stillness is luxury. Moments like those are power. Not the kind you buy—but the kind you carve out. The kind no one can hand you, but that you can claim for yourself.
And I thought—this is what I’ve been craving. Not perfection. Just peace. I’m 30 years old and finally learning what I should’ve been taught long ago:
Rest is not a reward. It’s a right.
And I deserve it.
Freedom doesn’t always look like escape. Sometimes it just looks like sitting beside a harbor, watching the world go by, and knowing you don’t have to race it.
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The night before last, I dreamed that my natural hair was growing in—thick, coily, and radiant. It was one of those close-up mirror dreams, where every curl at my roots shimmered with health. I was excited. I was showing my mom, smiling because I had just uncovered a part of myself I hadn’t seen in a while.
But in the dream, she didn’t smile back.
She gave a disgusted look at my hair and snapped, “Your hair doesn’t look good on you. I don’t know why you wearing it that way.”
I’ve never had that exact moment with my mother in real life, but it felt eerily familiar. In my waking life, I have known what it’s like to feel her disapproval when my hair wasn’t straightened. When it wasn’t polished into something she (and society) found acceptable.
The dream felt like my subconscious tapping me on the shoulder, whispering: There’s still something here.
And there is.
I am on my natural hair journey for the third time in so many years.
The first time, I didn’t know anything. I couldn’t properly wash my hair. I couldn’t detangle it. I could barely keep it moisturized. I was trying to love my hair without knowing how to care for it—a mirror of how I was trying to love myself: without the tools or support.
The second time, I got better at the care piece. Moisture. Scalp health. Researching the science of porosity and curl patterns. But I still struggled to style it in ways I felt were presentable and professional. I knew I needed a new stylist—someone who could help me with my natural coils—but I was scared. Scared to step outside my comfort zone. Scared to defy the voice of my late mother, who once told me not to “show all that nappy hair.”
Nappy.
It’s a word that still stings. A word that clings like residue. A word that has been used to shame tightly coiled, kinky 4C Black hair—like mine. I’m not sure when the word entered the Black American lexicon, but I know what it carries. Even now, I’m trying to reclaim it, the way some of us have reclaimed the N-word. Still, it doesn’t always sit right in my mouth.
Then came last December. My hair—and my body—were pushed to the brink.
I had a traumatic salon experience that I now see as a turning point. I suffered scalp burns after a relaxer touch-up at my former salon. The damage started before I even arrived. In a rush to remove glue from my first quick weave, I made the desperate decision to wash my hair less than two hours before the appointment. For 20 years, I never did that. I knew better. But I was tired. Frustrated. Trying to fix one mistake with another.
At the salon, my stylist asked if I wanted a wash and press or a touch-up. I chose the touch-up—one more time. Within two minutes, the chemicals started to burn. Not the mild tingle I’d once grown used to, but real pain. Alarm bells. I needed it rinsed out immediately.
And yet…I had to wait.
The stylist’s daughter was using the only available sink to wash another client’s hair. I sat there, writhing in pain, my scalp screaming. The memory reminds me of Denzel Washington’s character in Malcolm X, racing to the toilet as his head caught fire from the “creamy crack.” Only this wasn’t a movie. It was me. And no one rushed to help.
By the time the relaxer was rinsed out, I was traumatized. My stylist rubbed Neosporin on my scalp and told me she didn’t see any blood. I asked for a trim for my split ends, knowing deep down it would be the last time she ever touched my hair.
That night, yellow fluid wept from my scalp. It stained my pillowcase. I thought: This is what it’s come to? This is the cost of assimilation?
Luckily, I made it through. Four months later, my natural hair is growing in again. Healthy. Resilient. No signs of balding. Only a deeper understanding of what I’ve endured to finally start loving my coils.
So maybe that dream wasn’t about my mother at all.
Maybe it was about the version of me who is slowly, steadily learning to mother herself.
There’s something sacred about a closet clean-out—especially when you’re doing more than just organizing hangers. Lately, I’ve found myself craving a fresh start. Not just in my space, but in my spirit. As I prepare for an upcoming move, and continue walking through this new season of self-healing and discovery, I decided it was time to let go—physically and emotionally.
For weeks (okay, months), I’ve been putting off organizing my closet. Every time I opened the door, I felt overwhelmed. Not just by the clothes, but by what they represented: past versions of myself, outdated expectations, and emotional weight I hadn’t been ready to confront.
But this time, I approached it differently—not as a chore, but as a ritual of release.
So I lit my Sublime Patchouli candle and played Apple Music playlists from late artists Angie Stone and Aaliyah, while sorting through clothes that no longer suit me. It saddened me to hear that Angie Stone passed earlier this month. I was slowly coming out of my annual winter depression, when I saw a TikTok post from a friend, commemorating her music, the Sunday following Angie’s death.
It made me see once again how short life can be. Of course, Angie was a few decades older than Aaliyah when she passed, but they both met their demise in accidents. What were their dreams? What was left undone in their lives? What would be undone in mine if I were to suddenly go? The book I’ve wanted to write since I was nine? The nail salon I never opened?
So I took action—finally—and started with my clothes. Instead of simply tossing unwanted items aside, I created a donation pile. These weren’t just clothes—they were stories, memories, energy. Passing them along feels like an act of hope. Someone else will wear that dress to a job interview or cozy up in that sweater on a hard day.
It reminded me that healing isn’t only about what we remove from our lives—but also what we choose to pour back into the world. If you’re inspired to donate, consider local shelters, women’s resource centers, or mutual aid groups. A small gesture can become a soft place for someone else to land.
✨ Have you done any spring cleaning lately—physically or emotionally? What are you releasing this season?
I’d love to hear in the comments or on Threads.
Yes, my dear old friend Insomnia is in town again.
Unlike last year, this sleeplessness wave seems to stem from allergy medication. I’ve had severe pollen allergies since I was a kid and America’s balmy temperatures this spring pushed my symptoms to the max. Side note: Can someone please do something about climate change? I’m glad I haven’t been traumatized this time around, but it still sucks that I cannot stay asleep more than four hours a night.
I attempted to turn in for the night at 9pm, but things went awry when my nasal passages got irritated around 1am. I could tell the inside of my nose was swollen and I was fighting the urge to sneeze while still partially conscious. I sniffled repeatedly for what felt like an hour because I was determined to stay asleep. Eventually, I caved and sat up in bed. It didn’t immediately register that the 180mg Allegra tablet I popped before bed was the culprit, so I figured I needed to relax my mind by drawing.
In recent weeks, I’ve been practicing art therapy to help me unwind and process some of my subconscious emotions about grief and life’s general woes. I use SketchBook Pro to create my artwork, as it is affordable and easy to learn. With a stylus, the app and my computer, I can simulate physical sketches and paintings. Although my skill level hasn’t progressed to a point where the digital art is indistinguishable from canvas and paper, I still benefit. When I draw, my mind is free to roam and my soul is free to vent. I don’t push myself to make things perfect because flaws are beautiful. My only concern is to express trapped emotions.
Once I finished drawing, I hopped out of bed to get a box of tissues. I miss the days when Mom would let me stay home from school because my eyes were crusted and swollen shut from overnight allergy flares. As an adult, I just have a cup of coffee, push myself to the office, and express my hatred for tree reproduction through pictures.
I was pleasantly surprised last week when an old boss congratulated me on my current work anniversary. Not only did she send warm energy my way, she also rekindled my writing dreams when she said she hopes I still make time for my “creative writing talent”. I cringe at the word “talent”, not due to insecurity, but because I always want to improve. I don’t want to jinx it, y’know?
It’s been five years since I last worked with my old boss. It was a paid on-campus internship turned contract position upon graduation. It was one of my first writing jobs post college. Though I wasn’t doing my childhood dream of fiction or songwriting, I had plenty creative control in the newsletters, social media posts, and feature articles I crafted. It was a beautiful time, artistically.
Poor pay and a three hour commute caused me to leave the job. I landed at a conservative company that was controlled by a government organization. I hated going to work because, although I was still writing, I couldn’t add my own flare. My newsletters there were flat, dull and cookie-cutter, per the government organization’s restrictions. 😩
I ultimately found a path in IT support. Now that I think of it, I write daily in my IT role because of the documentation required to update and resolve our support tickets. I note my troubleshooting steps in clear detail and it’s not too challenging to communicate with clients who speak English as a second language. Clear and concise writing will benefit you in any industry!
I’m glad I went to college. I’m glad I had the constricting job with the government afterwards. I’m glad I took up an IT trade when things seemed gloomy in the Comms field. I’m glad I can use writing to express my feelings after losing Mom. Writing is part of who I am. I can’t lose myself.
It’s far too easy to give up on your dreams after losing a loved one. When I fell into depression last winter, I barely got out of bed, and I didn’t write or vocalize my turmoil. I just stayed in my childhood bedroom and watched YouTube gamers while ordering embarrassing amounts of jerk salmon from a local Jamaican restaurant.
Now that I’m feeling better emotionally, I need to finish one of my childhood novels, write more songs, and post more on this blog!
There’s nothing wrong with spoiling yourself. I chatted with my therapist about my supposed shopping addiction. While she didn’t immediately agree that it’s my diagnosis, she noted the pattern in my recent purchases: they are all things that pamper me.
I guess I felt scared and lonely after the Mother’s Day incident and used money to comfort myself. For example, I got a relaxing deep tissue massage and my first Brazilian wax, along with cute summer dresses. It felt good to treat myself with dignity and love. Too many times we rely on others–or even social media–for our sense of self worth. It felt good to provide those things for myself.
On this Fourth of July, I won’t be at a cookout and I may not see fireworks, but I am going to do what pleases my soul. Stay safe and *Free Live!
*Free Live (v) – to partake in unplanned activities that promote personal wellbeing.
My most recent Free Livin’ involved randomly going to my local Muse Paintbar and attending one of their paint classes. I had a blast! I’ve always considered myself an artist and it felt like I’d reached heaven when I finished my last brush stroke. I’ll definitely go again!
Two months ago, a cardinal visited a tree outside my balcony. I know they’re a sign of ancestral spiritual visits, so naturally, I was thrilled to have my mom visit me. Although I live in a wooded area, it’s rare to see a cardinal. I felt as though the bird meant something, especially since I saw two crows before it, one the same day and the other the day before.
Once I saw the second crow, I Googled the occurrence to research the deeper meaning. I got mixed results, but in any case the sighting has a profound meaning. Something was about to happen in my life. About three weeks after the sighting, I passed my road test on the first try! I believe Mom wanted me to know she’s watching me. I love her. I still feel her energy.
As I wrapped my GYN appointment at my new doctor’s office, the receptionist mentioned how much she liked my first name. And then, out of the blue, she said her daughter’s name is Keo. This would’ve been a mundane comment had Keo not been a nickname my mom called me.
The crying spell hit instantly.
I had to apologize to the receptionist and explain that the sudden rush of tears were due to my loss. The receptionist got up from her desk and met me in the hallway for an embrace. I told her about the cardinal and she welcomed my mom’s spirit. She mentioned that she lost her own mother several years ago.
In this stage of grief, I thought I was healed, but the burst of tears made me realize that I will never be completely healed. How can I? My mom is gone.
Today, I find myself avoiding deep memories about my mom and her illness. Of course, they still surface, but I’m able to block a lot of them with distractions like work, food, movies, and music. This probably isn’t a healthy approach, but it’s been almost a year! I’m tired of crying and feeling sad deep inside. I want my soul to feel clear and free again, without blocking trauma. I wish she was still here.
I never thought I’d say this, but I have to do something to curb my weight gain. Over my winter depression, I spent an embarrassing amount of time in bed—eating. It became a ritual where I’d open the Uber Eats app, scroll to my favorite restaurant and order my favorite meal. I wasn’t cooking for myself. I was putting my trust in another person to feed me, like a baby.
I took comfort in having someone else prep my meals because I internally miss the times when Mom would make ground beef-stuffed jumbo pasta shells on my birthdays, a dish she named after me. Once spring hit and I started to feel better, I started looking in the mirror. I didn’t like the woman I saw. The distended belly and love handles disgusted me. Pants hang below my stomach, my panties roll down below my belly; my jackets zip, but not without compressing my boobs. I can literally feel my stomach jiggle, like Jell-O, when I walk.
The only positive is that my boobs filled out more. What woman doesn’t want fuller boobs? But the boobs are a small reward for the self-esteem issues I face, as well as the increased medical risk associated with obesity. While I’m not yet obese, I’m in the early warning stages. If I don’t make a change now, my weight will continue to increase. I’ve gained 30lbs since Mom passed in 2020. That’s about 10lbs a year!
I recently bought a Wyze Scale that syncs my weight into Apple Health via Bluetooth. The Wyze Scale makes it easy to track my progress or regression with the Wyze app. I can set weight goals and see how close I am to reaching them.
At a recent OBGYN visit, my bloodwork showed that I’m on the cusp of prediabetes. It was a warning for me to change before it develops into diabetes, a chronic disease that impacts relatives on both sides of my family. According to the American Heart Association, too much sugar hurts your heart, so high blood pressure is also concerning.
I’m trying not to get depressed about my body image, because depression (and grief) is how I got here. I’m going to change my diet and exercise again! I want to restore my physical health!
I want to reinvent myself.
It’s spring and I’m coming out of my winter depression/grief darkness. I’m tired of ordering Uber Eats and chugging down salty meals in my bed. I’m tired of sleeping in said bed, with no frame, when I still have the lightly used adjustable king bed of my mom. I’m tired of my stomach being bloated because I’m addicted to cheese and carbs. I’m tired of throwing out plants I inherited from Mom after they inevitably die. I’m tired of not liking anything in my wardrobe, and not shopping for new clothes because I order out too much and I haven’t seriously committed to exercise in almost a year. I’m tired of seeing red missed calls from the same people, people I haven’t spoken to since my depression hit last October.
I’m tired of my best friend telling me to go to therapy. I’m tired of making excuses for why I can’t go. I’m tired of “convincing” myself that I will feel better with more sleep or more food.
I have to make conscious changes if I want to improve the quality of my life. I cannot assume that things will get better on their own. Seasonal depression hits differently for me because it combines with grief to keep me in the darkness.
Life post-Mom can feel like a lemon much of the time, but I am the only one who can make it into lemonade.
In a little more than a month, it will be two years since my mom left her mortal form. At this point, I’ve developed a new life in her absence. I wear my hair differently (I’m exploring transitioning to naturally kinky hair for the second time); I let my cleavage feel the summer sun; I don’t take anyone’s BS; I ask for what I want, instead of assuming someone will read my mind; and I no longer fear speaking to others. I’ve had to develop a tougher exterior to protect myself in this cruel world. No one will do what Mom did for me. I have to survive!
Gone are the days of incessant crying spells and bargaining about my perceived mistakes in her final months. Yet, it never really feels normal. In the summer months, I can rejoice in the heat because there’s no mental connection to her demise. But as fall starts, I’ve noticed I begin to feel empty and disconnected from reality. Last year, it was hard focusing at work, and I’m sure this year will be more of the same given my new job responsibilities. I still rarely look at Mom’s last pictures without tearing up . When I do, it feels like it’s been eons since we lived together. Memories of our lives before 2020 feel like peeking into a world that no longer exists—like Mom.
I use one of her old entertainment stands to keep images of her and my other ancestors. I see them before I leave out to explore this lonely world. I believe their strength now resides in me. I want to pursue my dreams and free live as much as possible, so that I have fantastic stories to tell them when I get to Heaven.
“So how did it go once I got to the Golden City?” Mom would ask.
“It was hard, but you taught me well. I chased my dreams and did just about everything I wanted. I’m glad to finally see you again!” I would gleefully reply.
I don’t think about dying much, but I’m fully aware that it can happen at any moment. I don’t take my health for granted like I did before Mom passed, especially after witnessing a stranger’s loss triggered severe insomnia, and damn near caused a nervous breakdown. Life is a rollercoaster, and while I’m riding it, I’ll enjoy my time. I think Mom would want me to embrace all the world offers. She would want me to keep going. The fight is never over!
While Googling myself (yes, we all do it) I had the misfortune of learning a girl I went to high school with, who shares my first name, was murdered last year in a domestic gun fight.
That kind of thing happens a lot where I’m from. For us, it’s not just movie drama—it’s actually waking up to a woman’s screams after her relative was shot on the steps behind my building; it’s maneuvering past eight squad vans to check the mailbox; it’s walking home because the police closed down the subway station after an arrest; it’s screeching tires; it’s not knowing if the loud pops are fireworks or gunfire. It’s common to witness death and pain, yet it is never comfortable.
I know I need to move, but the system isn’t designed to make it easy for Black folks. Without excellent credit, a co-signer, or a lighter complexion, it’s difficult to find affordable housing in a safe environment. You have to live in the hood if you want some kind of money left at the end of the month.
Scott has referenced the possibility of cohabitation, but the odds seem low. He’s trying to find stable employment, and I’m used to living on my own since Mom passed. I don’t really want to move in with anyone else at the moment, unless I was forced. I like waking whenever I want (on my off days). I like running my own show.
Ideally, I want us to get to a place where we both support each other. In Mom’s last years, our incomes matched. Whatever she couldn’t afford, I would chip in on, and vise versa. It felt good to know I could trust her financially, but I’m thankful that I had my own money. I’ll never forget the fear that hit me in the months after her passing. I had to grow up instantly—there was no more counting on Mom to save the day.
So, for now, I’ll stay in the apartment as long as my landlord allows. I’ll take the rent hikes. I’m grateful to have a place of my own and for the memories Mom and I shared there.
Kee Grieves 