My ample bosom was one of the great mysteries in my family, along with who my great-grandfather was before he settled down in the south, and why my grandmother leaves every possible light on in her house at all times. No one really knows where I got big breasts from genetically speaking, as none of the women in my immediate family are built this way. As best as I can tell I wished them big one Summer after being made fun of for being flat chested at camp, and I shit you not they grew, and just never stopped. I was a full C cup by 8th grade, and at age 31, standing 5’2, wearing a 36H, I finally decided to get a breast reduction.

Guys I’ve been tired, tired.  Too tired to do much of anything “non-essential,” and feeling guilty, unworthy and uncertain because of that.  My first instinct was to hop on over to the land of self-loathing.  Have you been there?  I visit too often and it’s an expensive ass trip.  A bit of travel advice, don’t go there.  However, I opted for the more productive solution which was to talk to my therapist about it.  Her response in so many words was, “Bitch, you really are tired because your energy is leaking all over the place.”  Energy…leaks?   A concept.

If you can’t tell from my Instagram, I am on the mend from another heartbreak. I’m not ready to go into the particulars of what transpired between The Boy and me, but I want to tell you what made this the most productive heartbreak I’ve ever endured. I did a lot of things differently in this “relationship” to ensure that no matter what happened between us, I wouldn’t come undone and end up doing shower slides, crying into a towel whilst listening to Rihanna’s “Stay” for six months. Don’t judge me, we all have our process, okay?

This post is kind of long, so you’re welcome to skip ahead to the steps.

“My therapist was saying,” is a phrase that just rolls off of my tongue nowadays.  It used to feel like taking a tampon out of your purse at the dinner table before excusing yourself to the restroom.  Everyone knows it’s a thing you may need at some point, but people don’t really want to know when or why you need it.  The response to my openness as a southern black woman who regularly sees a therapist was once met with rapid blinks of surprise, and sips from drinks as the person looked away.  However, as of late people in my circle are more interested in my experience seeing a therapist, because they want to see one themselves, but don’t know what to expect.

From the time that you snap into the consciousness that you are a girl, by virtue of your genitals alone, you are immediately taught to hide them.  We are taught that it’s not “ladylike” to ever have your legs open at any time for any reason whatsoever until you are married. You’re basically expected to walk around with a nickel between your knees from age five until the few times you have mediocre sex with your husband to produce however many children you have.  Which is obviously some bull shit. Now I have no issue with some level of modesty. I do; however, have an issue with the fact that boys are not taught at the same age that they are not entitled to what we were hiding. The sole responsibility for protecting the thing we are told to cherish the most in the world rests solely on us.  For example, I always found it troubling that we had to wear prayer cloths over our laps in the church to discourage men from looking up our skirts, yet they had to do nothing in the way of just not looking up our skirts. My point is we’ve been taught a certain level of shame about our biology since we became aware that we were girls, so when it comes time to do things like visiting the gynecologist, we never, ever, ever scoot down far enough in the exam chair.  But the mother of all vaginal intimacy, for which no one can prepare you, is getting waxed, and I find that process fucking fascinating.

During an interview, Oprah Winfrey once said to Maya Angelou, “Just listening to you now, I’m thinking, ‘What is it about Maya’ I think it’s that you know yourself.”  To which she agreed.

Oprah: You know that you are supported by something bigger than yourself. That you are loved. That you have the right to stand up for yourself. And that comes from knowing who you are.

Maya: And I not only have the right to stand up for myself, but I have the responsibility. I can’t ask somebody else to stand up for me if I won’t stand up for myself. And once you stand up for yourself, you’d be surprised that people say, “Can I be of help?”

I hate attending fashion networking events.  I also really hate being out on an overcast day in New York for any reason, but there I was on a cold Sunday afternoon pushing through anxiety and self-doubt to attend yet another networking event put on by yet another collective aimed at connecting Black people in fashion.  I find this to be a very noble cause btw, but at some point you find yourself just going through the motions without much payoff.  It’s like slipping back into sex with an ex.  It may or may not get you somewhere, but you do it anyway, and kind of regret it afterwards.  Am I the only one?  Fine.

Something you should know about me, I have an unreasonably large amount of friends.  I don’t mean homegirls/boys who I casually know.  I mean I have a lot of legitimate friends whose parents know me, and who I could call at 3 AM from jail, and know that they would show up for me without question.  Well, there would be questions, but not until the car ride home.  I consider this a huge blessing, but this year it revealed itself to be a bit of crutch for me in terms of my business life.

I stumbled drunkenly into my house after a miserable date that took place on a rainy night at a bar on the Lower East Side.  It was a cool enough place for two people to get to know each other.  It smelled of spilled drinks, desperation, and poor decision making, and I came home covered in two of the three.  The DJ played a solid mix of throwbacks, so the vibe was chill, despite the growing crowd.  The company; however, was questionable at best.