Face it. Life’s a bitch.
I know using such strong language shouldn’t necessarily prove a point. But, as a Black woman who suffers from depression and anxiety, as well as millions in this country, we’re tired of hearing the ignorance coming from family and friends or coworkers.
It’s old. I mean, really, really old.
It’s hard enough when you’re carrying the weight of depression on your shoulders and forced to smile on days when the bed is the haven. It’s a sad preference but a safe one to shield from the uncertainty of what the world has to offer.
You finished your manuscript. Put in the blood, sweat, and sleepless night to type the beautiful words: “The End.”
You’re giddy — just loving the fact you’ve accomplished a goal of a lifetime. Not many can tout this success and have fallen short of such an attempt.
But, you, beaming with enthusiasm, itching for the world to see your masterpiece. So, now, what?
You have the product but no means of relating with the public who and what your book represents.
So, let’s talk about the “who” — the person behind the laptop or pen of the potential novel…
I have a confession — a strange confession — but a necessary one to voice this aloud, to speak to the truth of what has crippled my belief using my full potential for advancement.
I have a stutter.
According to the National Institute of Deafness and Other Communications Disorder (NIDCD), stuttering is a speech disorder characterized by the repetition of sounds, syllables, or words; prolongation of sounds; and interruptions in speech known as blocks.
Anyone close to me had known this verbal disorder all my life. I can go as far as back in grade school when speaking…
As a child, I remembered the time I had a lip-sync battle with my Aunt Niecy.
She was seventeen or eighteen, and I was six. Her bedroom became the stage. The song “Grooveline” by Heatwave thumped through the stereophonic speakers while posters displayed the 1970s era on the walls. A small incense cone burned the sweet aroma of frankincense as my aunt used a hairbrush as a microphone. She twirled and gyrated her hips among the tempo. And little ole’ me admired her spunk before I understood what “spunk” meant. …
Coca-Cola, UPS, and AT&T all have one thing in common: a brand that works. Put in the color behind the brand, and it’ll speak to the consumer louder than their product and services.
So, why does color matter?
It’s a calling card on television commercials, advertisements, and yes, their logos and packaging. Companies rely on your senses for the ultimate sale. What feels good for you mean enormous gains for businesses.
So, let’s talk about the psychological aspect of color. Ignyte Brands, an award-winning agency that specializes in brand psychology, states:
Somewhere deep inside of your soul is a person waiting to be set free.
I’m not referring to a physical form but a consciousness that speaks within to help make prudent life decisions.
Call it intuition, a gut instinct, or a vibe. Either way, it’s the voice that you rely on when times are tough.
In the Black church, I knew it as the Holy Spirit. And every Sunday, the Sanctuary, filled with an ensemble of joyful songs, a tambourine to accompany the harmony, and a congregation, singing and shouting as they rose to their feet.
Not long after, the…
What has ingrained into my soul had suddenly ceased to exist. The creation of new worlds and inescapable truths had become a lost battle cry. For years, I’ve grown accustomed to pounding the keyboard at any given moment. Now, I’m silenced. Yet, here I am, writing why I can’t write. Trying to decipher whether it is a writer’s block, or worse.
Then COVID interrupted life. Everyone’s life.
As an introvert, I looked forward to home life. Social distancing from individuals for the sake of health and creativity. While the world heals, I can write. I didn’t mind how long it…
Dear Sad and Unfortunate Ones,
After going through years of counseling and prayers, I’ve come to terms why every relationship I’ve been in went awry; or why I end up in inappropriate affairs, or why I accepted being the second option, the backup, and the two a.m. booty-call. Every relationship decision I’ve made. Every tear I’ve cried. Every how-did-I-get-into-this-situation rant, every self-loathing, suicidal thought and guilt, all stems back to you — the cowardly attacker.
However, I won’t give you the satisfaction of placing all of my bad choices firmly on you because the key word in this sentence is…
Have you ever felt you were running on empty by the constant barrage of daily life: work, family, and for some, school?
Whether you’re a single parent or a parent with special responsibilities, such as, caring for a physically or mentally impaired relative or a parent who has to juggle with everyday life, we all fall into the trap of guilt and shame because we feel we’re underperforming our parental duties — or like me — doubting my duties as a daughter to aid my disabled mother. …
My beacon that shines above
that illuminates a weary soul.
You’re a blessing with no disguise;
a right thief that comes gently
into the night.
How long has it been?
Days turned to weeks;
then weeks turned to months
And yet, you’re still here;
patiently waiting for that day
when you and I are more than you and I
When two souls emerge into an infinite one.
You’ve shown me patience
You’ve shown me kindness
You’ve never, ever, boast
You’re never, ever, been the type to self-seek
You’re just a man, a unique man
Who flaws I adore…
Founder of Necé and Company Publications and the author of the book, Zion's Road. Music lover. An avid believer in equality.