It is What it is..........

Today, I feel like a butterfly slowly coming out of the cocoon.

Not re-emerging in full soar mode.

Not yet.

I’m timid.

But I’m strong.

I’m looking both ways. Peeking out. Part of me wants to crawl my ass right back inside because at least the cocoon became familiar.

But here’s the problem:

Once you break the cocoon, you can’t live there anymore.

And mine is broken.

Boundaries have been tested.Relationships have been broken.The wool has been pulled from over my eyes.

And for more than a decade, I lived in survival mode.

Everything that wasn’t my children could wait.

So some people got out of order.

Some people got feisty.

Some people got real comfortable being out of order because Shantrael wasn’t checking everything.

But everything didn’t need to be checked.

Some shit was just information.

I saw you.

I always saw you. You just weren’t an emergency.

There is a difference.

When you are fighting for your children’s lives, I don’t have time to stop the whole damn operation because somebody rolled their eyes.

I saw it.

I saw the clap that didn’t match the face.

I saw the disdain behind the congratulations.

I saw the way you looked at my hair and wanted it.

I saw the way you looked at my home and envied it.

I saw the way you looked at me and couldn’t understand why everything that should have destroyed me—

didn’t.

Because what you didn’t understand was my foundation.

Abba.

I had a Father.

And I have been standing on a firm foundation since Bloomy Shade Baptist Church in Eudora, Arkansas.

My mother is a rock.

My grandmother is a rock.

My Big Mama was a rock.

So baby, I know how to rock.

And if you know the generation, then you know I know how to lean with it and rock with it too.

I know how to sway.

I know how to rock-a-bye a baby.

I know how to hum for the ancestors.

I know how to grunt for God.

I know how to lament and still be okay.

I know how to tarry and still go to sleep.

I know how to battle—

and win the war.

That one?

You don’t want to mess with that one.

The woman who knows she is light and has finally decided to walk like lite?

You don’t want it.

Because apparently my light has always entered rooms before I did.

I just didn’t understand it.

I walked into rooms trying not to be seen.

I didn’t wear anything that required too much attention.

I didn’t say anything that required you to listen too closely.

And somehow—

people still found me.

Then I became a mother.

Not just any mother.

A medical mama.

Whew.

There is something about a medical mama.

And if she is a good medical mama?

Woo-wee.

She learns how to live in multiple worlds at the same damn time.

Reality.

Hospital reality.

Insurance reality.

Doctor reality.

Mama reality.

Griefality.

A whole damn metaverse.

Because no medical mama dreams of becoming a medical mama.

Nobody puts that shit on a vision board.

Something happens.

Chance.Happenstance.An accident.An injury.A diagnosis.

And suddenly you are fluent in a language you never asked to learn.

Then I became a medical mama times two.

None of it genetic.

None of it anything we could have anticipated.

Nonetheless—

it happened.

And then came grief.

Not just death.

Grief.

Because I have lost so much more than people.

Darren passed away November 12, 2021.

And after Darren, I began learning how many different ways something can die without a funeral.

Relationships died because somebody got tired of my sadness.

A friendship died because my best friend told me anxiety and depression weren’t real and that I just needed to pray more.

Yep.

My best friend.

Pickleball died.

Because who in the hell thinks pickleball is more important when my son just died?

Then Jaxon died.

And Jaxon’s death didn't just hurt me.

It stopped me in my tracks.

It is October.

Next month marks a year.

And somehow it feels like yesterday.

Explain that.

Explain how a calendar can say almost a year while a mother's body says:

Yesterday.

That is grief.

And then there were people who didn't physically die at all.

Darryl’s entire side of the family died to me.

Sometimes I look at Darryl and wonder:

Are you dead too?

Because you can be breathing and still be dead.

You can have a pulse and be dead to a relationship.

Dead to compassion.

Dead to connection.

Dead to the version of a life that once existed.

You can absolutely be alive—

and dead.

Losing that much changes you.

It changes your lifestyle.

It changes how you move.

It changes what you tolerate.

It changes your heart posture.

Except somehow, loss didn't make me love less.

It made me love harder.

It made me more intentional.

Because I know what it means for somebody to be here—

and then not be here.

So when I love you, I LOVE you.

And maybe that is why so few people stay.

Because now?

I see you.

I see the disrespect.

I see the calculation.

I see the coldness.

I see when you came into proximity to me because proximity gave you access.

Access to rooms.

Access to people.

Access to opportunities.

Access to resources.

Access to a kind of love you had never experienced in your entire damn life.

And hear me:

You will never experience it from me again.

You will never have another friend like me.

Cue Aladdin and Genie:

You ain't never had a friend like me.

And I mean that.

But the ones who stayed?

Oh, baby.

They are few and mighty.

Mighty and few.

And they probably aren't who you think.

People get mad because I name names.

And my question has always been:

Did I lie, though?

Apparently that's a problem too.

So today I won't name names.

Because you know exactly who you are.

Sister.

Cousin.

Friend.

Whatever title you once carried.

If it belongs to you, pick it up.

Because I see you.

I felt you.

I heard you.

And if you ain't no friend of mine anymore, you ain't no friend of mine.

If you ain't my sister anymore, you ain't my sister.

I'll see you next lifetime.

Cue Erykah Badu.

And I mean that shit too.

Friend or foe?

Some of my biggest foes stood close enough to call themselves friends.

They were there for what they could get.

They wanted the light but resented the person carrying it.

They wanted proximity to the glow while secretly being pissed off that they weren't the source.

You copied the hairstyle.

You copied the moves.

You asked about the rooms.

I opened them.

You asked for the people.

I connected you.

You asked for access.

I gave it.

And you...

you...

you...

Next.

But here's what I've learned about snakes.

Some snakes are necessary.

They eat rats.

They eat rodents.

They handle pests.

So I don't even hate every snake anymore.

I just need to know what kind I'm dealing with.

Because there is always that snake that gets close enough to whisper.

Close enough to tell you what you want to hear.

Close enough to make everything you do sound right.

Close enough to feed your ego while feeding off your energy.

No.

We ain't good.

Because Jaxon broke the levee.

His death broke something open.

And when that water rushed through, it washed the veil off my eyes.

Suddenly, I could see everything.

See, I used to operate with eighty million tabs open.

So you might have said something three years ago and I noticed it—but I had a hospital admission on another tab.

A seizure on another.

Medication on another.

Insurance on another.

Work on another.

Marriage on another.

Motherhood on another.

Life on another.

So your little slick comment?

Baby, the tab stayed open.

I just didn't click it.

But now?

I have gone back through the tabs.

And there you are.

Ohhhhh.

You've been fucking up for a long time.

I see it now.

And maybe that's what this cocoon was for.

Because that butterfly who was timidly peeking her head out?

She's still cautious.

But she's launching.

She's ready to launch.

And this time, she isn't responsible for carrying everybody on her wings.

I used to believe everybody was coming with me.

Okay.

I'm lying.

Because it ain't a lot of y'all anymore.

I think I'm down to fewer than ten.

And that includes family.

But what remains is mighty.

God said so.

God said no.

God said yes.

God said wait.

God said, Hold on.

God said, Pause.

God said, You're not ready yet.

And then God said:

Are you ready for the thing I've been telling you to do?

And I did it.

April 26, 2021:

God Said No was born.

April 26, 1912:

My Big Mama was born.

April 26, 2024:

Nolin Kai was born.

You think I don't see God in that?

I will be a good steward over what He has given me.

My gifts.

My story.

My businesses.

My words.

My calling.

My motherhood.

My grief.

My ministry.

My opportunities.

But there is one thing I am finally learning to steward differently:

ME.

I am going to steward Shantrael.

Protect her.

Feed her.

Rest her.

Listen to her.

Believe her.

Choose her.

Because God is my source.

My ten are my power.

My foundation is firm.

And there is one little firecracker still here reminding me that life is still asking something of me.

Nolin Kai.

My little 2.0.

Darren and Jaxon on 25.

It is going to take all of us soldiers to keep up with him.

And I am going to be here to do it.

So yes—

I count it all good.

Not because all of it was good.

Some of this shit was terrible.

Some of it broke my heart.

Some of it changed me forever.

Some of it I would give anything to undo.

But I count it all good because somehow God has taken every shattered piece and refused to waste it.

So that little butterfly?

She's not crawling back inside.

The cocoon is already broken.

And 2021?

He showed me.

He told me the time was coming.

Now I understand.

The time is now.

You're going to see me on television.

You're going to see me on stages.

You're going to see me walk into rooms people never imagined I could enter.

You're going to watch doors open that people thought they had enough power to close.

And the difference this time is—

I'm not bringing everybody with me.

I'm not dimming the light so everybody's eyes can adjust.

I'm not apologizing for the wings.

I'm not explaining the favor.

I'm not carrying grown people while I'm trying to fly.

My Father is my source.

My foundation is firm.

My people are few and mighty.

My babies are part of every fiber of me.

My assignment is still alive.

And me?

I'm coming out of the cocoon.

Timid?

Maybe.

Careful?

Absolutely.

But scared of my own wings?

Not anymore.

So—

let's go.